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They emerge from the kitchen on the big day carrying an enormous picnic basket between them, which neither one could manage on his own. Well, they could levitate it, but Feral is still not keen on pointing his wand at things he'd like to keep and Sherlock assures him that this way is more fun.

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The Dementor glides out from behind the trees - distant shadow nearing them.

Bella is still standing up. She checks her wand grip.

She says, "I don't know if this is going to work."

And then she aims at the Dementor and snaps, "Expecto patronum."

That's not mist.

It's light, pouring out of her wandtip, and forming a very definite shape.

It's not an animal. It's a person, two arms and two legs, indeterminate sex, compact enough that it's not even necessarily a human but could be an elf or a goblin or a hag, its shifting glow and fog obscuring where it would have features. It's the idea of a person.

Bella keeps her wand raised, biting her lip so hard that she's starting to bleed, and her blindingly silver person warms the air and lifts the oppressive dark -

And it darts forward almost too quick to see, and its hand shoots towards the dementor as though to strangle the monster -

Which dissolves on contact.

Leaving a tattered cloak, falling into a heap at the feet of the glowing Patronus.